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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26697292">Only The Brave Shall Pass</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyLadySnackCakes/pseuds/FancyLadySnackCakes'>FancyLadySnackCakes</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Kinktober 2020 [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ball Massage, Bretons (Elder Scrolls), Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, F/M, First Time Blow Jobs, Humiliation, Oral Sex, Orcs, Orsimer (Elder Scrolls), Size Difference, Size Kink, magick uses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 05:14:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,475</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26697292</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyLadySnackCakes/pseuds/FancyLadySnackCakes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: There’s no getting past Borkul The Beast unless you have a damn good reason or something he wants. Luckily, or tragically, our Dragonborn with magis fingers has something Borkul would like very, very much.</p><p>A/N: Day 1 of Kinktober! Kink: Size/Oral. Please see tags for warnings!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Borkul the Beast/Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Kinktober 2020 [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1958581</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>113</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Only The Brave Shall Pass</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>"You don't want me to have to repeat myself, wench."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She's speechless. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There have been very few times she's been spoken to in such ways. By bandits at times and skooma-sick layabouts often, but prisoners calling her such is new. Usually, a reply like that would garner something insidious from her fingertips or a verbal lashing of daedric proportions at the very least, but she bites her tongue. There are unknown dangers here and this beast—this </span>
  <em>
    <span>brutish</span>
  </em>
  <span>, green monstrosity—is one of them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She manages to stay quiet through sheer will alone, and proudly so, recognizing the place in which she stands. Murders, rapists, thieves and liars lurk. The eyes that are already pinpointing her weak spots will spot more beneath the surface should she cave in to rage. The slur ‘wench’ rolls off her shoulders like a year-long snow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>None of the prisoners of the Cidhna Mines know who she is. None can fathom she's schooled in multiple schools of magick—able to conjure a blade of destruction and pools of fire with a flex of fingers. They don't have an iota or a clue, and she would like to keep it that way, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mara</span>
  </em>
  <span>… the way this Orsimer continues to stare makes her palms tickle. The insult, she can ignore enough, but this glare of disdain nearly breaks her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A voyeuristic prisoner a stone's throw away chuckles at the stalemate between her and the large Orsimer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They have no respect for her. Sooner or later, one of them will try something because she is deceptively small and weak-looking… and without the thick magis robes, she is even slighter in frame than usually perceived. When that happens, she will need to have all her wits about her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This smallness against Borkul's largeness makes his exchange for admittance so outlandish—so laughable and so… </span>
  <em>
    <span>distressing</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“... insults like that will not get you what you ask for, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Orc</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” she says as he eyes her unpleasantly. The snarky tone she adds to ‘Orc’ actually makes the beast’s lips curl upwards.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Hmph</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he snorts. “That’s better. Drop that fancy attitude fast. Royal cunts with bad attitudes don’t last long here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I have the bad at-“ she nearly shrieks, then holds her breath and balls her fists. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Now is not the time</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she reminds herself once more.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The muscled Orsimer snarls down at her, obviously having expected an answer to his offer by now just as she expected civility. Both are naive notions, yet she is the one with her back against the wall.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"My apologies," she replies flatly, "I will refrain from attempting civil discourse with someone such as yourself. Did I hear you correctly when you said-"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Take it or leave it. I don't much care either way," he says, sounding less confrontational but still more gruff than she's used to, even from an Orsimer… even considering his enormous size. Perhaps it's accurate for a prisoner of the mines, but alas, she detests it almost as much as she detests the idea of his… his…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her gaze drifts down thick, crossed arms of fur and iron, past the dusting of dark hair down his navel to his rough cotton trousers. If he is as endowed as he is tall and… bulk-laden, then it will be nigh impossible.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A word of horror nearly breaches her lips, but she grants him another assessment from his feet to the bundled dress atop his head. She looks and thinks better for it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He must be at least a foot taller than Urag in the libraries back at Winterhold. If her nose meets the brutish criminal's abdomen—chiseled from obsidian by the looks of it—then that is it. At least two and a half feet taller than herself, which means he is well over seven feet tall, perhaps bordering on eight. The way he stands with his feet apart and arms crossed with such grossly enormous muscle is daunting, to say the least. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she reckons, </span>
  <em>
    <span>there will be no arguing or outwitting him.</span>
  </em>
  <span> She either must do as he bids or cast some sort of charm she can't quite recall the incantations to now.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Mara's Blessing… what am I about to do…" she whispers to herself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her eyes skim across his trousers again. There is a bulge there and has been since she first saw him, which means that protrusion is the state of his cock whilst flaccid. Another nervous wave washes over her, and yet she cranes her neck back to grant him a resolute grimace. What she's about to subject herself to will, at least thankfully, stay within these forsaken mines. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>May the likes of Sheogorath smile fondly on her after today…</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p> </p><p><span>The toothsome and tusk-filled smirk he gives her as she emboldens herself is curious and oddly attractive. </span><em><span>Well, no. That's not true.</span></em> <em><span>Nothing about him is appealing</span></em><span>, she reminds herself. But sometimes, one must do what one must, and she must get through him to see Madanache. There is no other way around it, not unless she wants to commit a real crime to remove herself from this false imprisonment. The last thing she wants is to be subject to such hypocrisy… or lawfully here.</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Disgustingly disproportionate even amongst some giants as he is, she must move onwards. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A true Breton would see this as an opportunity to learn—to grow and better oneself. So, she will do just that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Alright, Borkul of Cidhna Mines," she addresses him in the manner one does when entering a duel, "I accept your exchange. I will do as you ask in return for passage, but I have several condi-"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Borkul scoffs, belching laughter between his teeth; a sound that is grating on her ears. Like an ancient monument bowing to a worshipper, he leans down until she can see the golden amber of his eyes. "No conditions. I won't tear your throat out, but I don't do soft like your Breton cuckolds—as delicate and tiny as they are. I hope you know how to suck a cock better than you can hide that magick shit in your hands."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She blinks, stupefied, and looks down at the curled, pulsating tips of her fingers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Borkul, realizing her obvious tell, actually makes her blush yet the implication that he is about to put his cock in her mouth has not. His talk must have unconsciously annoyed her enough to let an insignificant flare of magick ignite. Her flames always cared when she felt insulted, no matter how hard the Aldmeri chastised her. It was silly to think she has kept it hidden thus far.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I do not engage in such practices as..." the word will not form on her tongue, so she shakes it off and continues, straightforward and curt, maintaining an even expression despite her fingertips burning, "but I will do as you request as long as the passage is granted once you are done."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Once I spill my cum down your pretty little throat," Borkul words it differently for her, "Aye. You'll have your meeting then, wench."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Though it is meant to shock her, she does well to keep the magick's crackle inside her frayed, prison garments this time. There is little left to insight her sensibilities at this point anyhow. Her modesty has already been insulted, cleaved, and beheaded-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Brace yourself, Breton.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It doesn't entirely strike her that the agreement has been struck and finalized as real until she is staring down thick, claw-tipped fingers of cave-moss coloring while they unravel the rope knot above his groin. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Right here!?</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fretfully, she glances behind them at their fellow prisoners. Only a few have turned from their work to watch whatever encounter is happening, but many—more than half—ignore them, too focused on breaking rock and hauling it down the trembling corridor to her right. A rustle of fabric draws her attention back to Borkul's fingers, and this time, she blushes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A wave of heat, detached from anger, washes over her at the sight of his… </span>
  <em>
    <span>manhood…</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Orsimer steel is laid out, quite unceremoniously, before her. Perhaps, manhood was not the proper word. Monolith, describes it better. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Cock</span>
  </em>
  <span>, as foul as the word tasted in her mouth and thoughts, is also accurate. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Growing up in an affluent family in High Rock and then raised by the strict rules and regulations of the College of Winterhold, taught her not to stare. Social faux pas such as that, however, have no place here, and so she stares unapologetically; unable to look elsewhere. After all, it's vital to assess the length and girth before deciding how she will… </span>
  <em>
    <span>well</span>
  </em>
  <span>, there's no way it will fit in her mouth, but she might have an idea of how to make him reach his completion so long as a little magick does not frighten him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She stands and waits as he flagrantly jostles his phallus in one hand before her—waits for him to point her in whatever direction he deems the path to their shared privacy, but he merely stands there, exposed and unashamed.</span>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Are they not going somewhere secluded? Surely, he does not think-</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Do you have so little decency?" She hisses quietly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>An inability to cull her tongue surfaces despite it growing fat in her mouth at the display of long, brackish-green-coloring that fades like a sunset into spackling-purple, then a rosy-red. The spectacle of delicate veins hidden beneath thickened yet soft looking flesh grow fatter as the moments pass. Such a broad, mushroom flared tip hypnotizes while the engorged slit at the top, glistening gently beneath the torch lights swells with crystalline fluid… and—and she forgets where her train of thought was going to be true.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He is too large himself to be merely an extension of his phallus, but to say his cock did not have a unique presence of its own would be a folly. Borkul of Cidhna Mines is far too large to tackle with even a magick's light flutter, so she deduces an ample amount will be her aid. Thankfully, she has a near limitless pool of mana to supply him with. In fact, the idea nearly brings her some smiling confidence. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It is not until his giant-like hand is wrapped around her shoulder, easily encasing her upper arm, that a bolt of humbling fear ignites her senses. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Humble swiftly becomes outlandish with a squeeze that makes her bones grind.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Unhand me!" She shrieks; it’s an order that rips from neath her mannerisms and respectful breeding, and to her muted surprise, she is released quickly and carefully. Borkul does as he is told in this instance, whether by the tone of her voice or the unwillingness to begin a riot where he might not get what he bargained for. The thought that he has compassion for her never crosses her mind, but that is her foolishness retaking hold. It’s only because she is too focused on the horrid size of his manhood that she doesn’t see the veiled concern of his brow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her surprise washes away as quickly as he unhanded her, only to be replaced with a wary tension as he clears the small distance between them, snarling through his tusks and sharp front teeth; nostrils flaring.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Might-" she blurts then takes a step back, lowering her voice, "might we go somewhere more private. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Unlike you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I would prefer to do such intimate acts away from strange eyes."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Orsimer lifts his upper lip like she's given him the gravest insult. Which, for all she knows, she has. The ways of the so-called </span>
  <em>
    <span>Beast Races,</span>
  </em>
  <span> as her Pa would call them, was not a subject of her study back home. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Perhaps it was not uncommon for his kind to fornicate in the open?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Still, the thought is foul...</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Borkul growls—a rumble like a cave in—and snatches up the front of her ratty linens, bringing her against his chest which feels akin to the rock walls imprisoning them. The action is barbaric, bringing her in contact with the hard knob of flesh pushing into her navel—naked and disgustingly large.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Debase yourself here with me or serve as a skeever-shit slave for the Silver-Bloods. The choice is yours, Breton. I don’t carry shame for my cock like you do for that fucking mouth."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There is no convincing him otherwise then. She shouldn't have expected less in all honesty. His </span>
  <em>
    <span>cock</span>
  </em>
  <span> is has been on display for minutes, why would he consider a different scenery now?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Very well," she says with a cherry-cheeked glare, "but consider turning your back to them so I might be hidden while I fulfill my part?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"No," he bites, sounding at his wit's end. “Now or never."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"... </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Then let this be over quickly," she grits out, cherry-red still, as a little girl caught in a misstep at a banquet of judgmental eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She watches his mouth curl into a mean grin of teeth and tusks, making it clear how little the attention bothers him, perhaps how much it excites him even. From a male perspective, she figures having someone perform fellatio in public serves two purposes: flaunting their manhood and power. Which, in her short-lived experience thus far, is what they enjoy doing most. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He releases his hold on her prison garb, allowing her foot soles to run flush with the hard rocky ground. The movement is not ungentle, but he gives her a light punch in the shoulder as soon as she has her balance again. No doubt, to dispel any kindness because </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mara forbid</span>
  </em>
  <span> he show some morality in times like these. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Get on with it."</span>
</p><p> </p><p><em><span>Get on with it</span></em> <em><span>indeed</span></em><span>, she thinks with a grimace. </span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Getting on her knees is pointless; he's too tall for that to work, so she'll have to suffer a future backache until she can procure her belongings and drink down a health poultice. A rich lather in a claw-footed bath sounded good too. Perhaps, the house of Dibella will welcome her if she sways her hips just right. If anyone in this tundra of the Northern Skyrim has a way to soothe aches and pains, it will be them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She leans down, leveling with the weighty thing being waged at her with his fist. It’s humiliating, but she’s flushed to the Nines.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With tactical precision, she spots a swollen gland beneath the head of his cock; noting the gentle sweep of veins that sprout downwards around it.</span>
  <em>
    <span> The frenulum</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she decides. There are few things she cares to know about what she's about to do, but her study—as the heir to an ample Hold and many subjects—she was taught the art of lovemaking. More specifically, how to please a man in the most basic sense. Several spots along Borkul's bestial phallus look promising, but the most significant weakness is right here… where the head of the member meets the shaft in a bundle of nerves and tight, smooth wrinkles. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A grunt of impatience resounds above her, but she ignores it. The eyes on her are distracting enough as she holds the edges of his open trousers in hand and tugs them lower. Body heat spills into her knuckles. The massive, woodland-hued sac of flesh beneath his cock comes free with a light shake, and had she not been in this exact predicament she may have giggled as the sight. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Above, that grumble turns to an appreciative growl and she smiles, knowing she did something right at least. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Warm magick tingles beneath her dirtied nails, crackling with nervous anticipation as she palms the warm, nearly smooth set of flesh. A light pulse of fire merely heats her hand several degrees above body temperature but it makes the twin weights within her palm contract then relax. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Curious</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In the past, she has used this method to deliver herself calf massages after long hikes through the wilderness, now… she fondles and softly squeezes heat into an Orsimer's balls… with an audience no less.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She will have plenty of time to feel ashamed of this once she is out of the mines—once she has washed this encounter off. For now, she bends over, takes Borkul's tip in hand, and licks a hot circle around the head; palm still cupping and molding his sac with a flourish of fingers, thumb, and warming magick. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Borkul's chest rumbles, "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Mmmhm</span>
  </em>
  <span>, that's more like it. Mages like you never have to work for rewards. Yeah, I know your-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She seals her lips over the slit of his cock and gives the salty fluid a slurp. Distant thunder echoes off the rocky walls as a storm begins to brew in his chest—as his bigoted words die. His breath comes more abundant and more difficult. His stance changes to grant her better access, and—she notes smugly—his knees bent until she can kneel comfortably before him, suckling softly around the massive head of Orsimer cock like a salted rock candy from Elsweyr. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I knew you'd be decent with that mouth. Never had a woman so fiery shut up so fast. You’re pretty,” and then, as though he didn’t mean to let that compliment slip, adds louder, “when you’re quiet.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For a moment, she's lulled into the idea that this will be much easier than it seemed when he first offered such a distasteful deal. Despite being a prisoner, and an Orsimer no less, he is receptive to her delicate touch and smells of moss, tree sap, and must. His taste, while heavy with brine, is oddly enjoyable. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She nearly relents both in body and mind, the daring thought that a well-bred lady such as herself would find pleasure in this—and if not pleasure, then at least not disgust. Nearly relents. But not quite. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Borkul of Cidhna Mine chuckles deeply as she kisses, sucks, and lathers her tongue around his wide head. Easier than ignoring his turbulent conversations skill, she tunes out his mocking laughter to focus a thrum of heat into her palm. She massages his balls with weak fire and smirks as his humor dies, replaced with a barbaric, biting snarl.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>By Malacath…</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Against a slit that leaks pre-cum, she whispers so that only the two of them can hear, "... you look weak, Borkul. Is this all it takes to </span>
  <em>
    <span>shut you up?</span>
  </em>
  <span>"  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn't think clearly about repercussions, or what a beast of his size could do to her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Your mouth isn't full enough if you can still squawk, Breton." He grumbles. "Open wide… and don't bite down."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A couple prisoners laugh behind her, their tones far away as a sage-colored hand grabs the back of her head. Her first instinct is to resist. Terrible tusks, teeth and thorny brows stare down at her; a white, clay-painted skull masked over the brutality. Afraid, or surprised, she opens her mouth—a curse on her tongue—only for two thick, firm fingers to dig inside and pry her jaw open. A sound of shock gags out her throat, but he doesn't stretch her wide enough to pull a muscle… just enough so he can dock his cock over her wiggling tongue with a few movements of his hips.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Salt explodes over her taste buds.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"That's better," he growls in unfettered pleasure, "just like that. Don't choke on all this meat either. That would be embarrassing, wouldn’t it? "</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her face throbs with shame and </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>, embarrassment too. Something in her throat spasms in anticipation, but… oddly enough, Borkul is not ungentle. It's a running theme with him. She expects violence and gets something less sweet than gentle, but not unkind. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He thrusts an inch deep past her lips then removes his fingers; that hand on the back of her head slips to her neck's base. Fingers play with the loose hair there as her jaw relaxes around such salted girth. If it wasn't for their audience…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she tells herself. This is a vile debasement of self, and she won't enjoy it. This is a task and that is all—nothing else...</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Borkul’s fingers clench, triggering an involuntary suck. The first one brings out a deep resonance above, and another—this time a little stronger—gets her another. She swallows more and sucks her way back to the crown of cock while massaging the bundle of flesh beneath. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With wet, warm sounds, she earns her reward. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Much better… </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes…</span>
  </em>
  <span>” then again, “... </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes, ubeshka</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The word is guttural—foreign—but it’s said with a reverence that doesn’t feel quite like the slur had. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A large vein on the side of his phallus throbs, pressing against the top of her tongue as she twists her mouth at an angle to take more down her throat, licking a lashing into the underside. Ample leaks of brine flood down the back of her throat, slipping into her gut as she swallows, bobbing and slurping and devouring all she can.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Borkul growls, snarling with each inch of flesh she swallows and unsheathes, "Show me how much Orcish cock you can swallow. Come’on… better… than this... </span>
  <em>
    <span>hnn!</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His manhood slides deeper, tickling something that makes her reflexes seize and gag, but she winces and keeps going; opening up wide for more and more.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“More…</span>
  <em>
    <span> rohi ornim</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he snarls again, claws scraping the base of her scalp, tugging and methodically twisting locks of hair. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His hips pump backwards and forwards, guiding himself only so deep as if he suddenly cares for the soft, tender flesh on the back of her throat. Moans leak between her lips, falling down her chin as does a skinny river of saliva. With every drag of her mouth and caress of her tongue, Borkul's hips jerk faster. He fucks her mouth a little deeper and snorts ever hotter, like a dragon preparing to belch out a fiery reign of horror. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Ready…” he warns, “… </span>
  <em>
    <span>now!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Warning her does no good. She’s lost in the motions. Borkul's taste has dazed her. The smell of masculine sweat and raw silver pumps blood through her veins. Magick crackles between the lines on her fingers; rushing into his skin. It doesn't help that his words since she began have been crude, because there’s been something electrifying about being demeaned whilst appreciated in the same breath. Alas, she is surprised mid-suck as a hot splatter of semen shoots down her throat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Stupid Breton</span>
  </em>
  <span>… she thinks, morning at the viscous heat sliding down her throat. A second squirt of seed causes her to gag, nearly retching, but instinct forces her to swallow. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Beneath her knees, the mines seem to shake as the Orsimer above her roars. The third spurt of cum lands on her tongue and fourth splatters across her lips. She only realizes as he’s beating his fist along the expanse of slick cock, that he had pulled her off him with a firm grip in her hair—a grasp that's still there, holding her a foot away as he covers her attire in ropes of thick, opaque semen.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Uhnnn</span>
  </em>
  <span>, don't look so sour, Breton," he groans to a short, gruff purr, "You'll get a taste of more soon enough. It's not like Madanache will drop everything for a small thing like you."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"As th-though you can be so sure," she backfires, still dripping from the chin—still tasting him heavy on her tongue.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oddly enough, there is something attractive about him now that his face isn’t pinched in perpetual rage. The color of bliss looks good on him...</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"No one escapes Cidhna Mine,” he continues, stroking one last dollop of cum from his manhood, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>mmmmph</span>
  </em>
  <span>... so you better get used to sucking my cock. Usefulness has a way of staying alive down here."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She glares, cleaning off her messy chin with fingers and the loose neck of her scratchy tunic.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Borkul the Beast, these prisoners call him, lives up to his name. Even her proper upbringing tells her he is as such. The only moniker he deserves is that of a beast. Who cares if he was gentle when he didn't need to be… or merciful at moments when others surely wouldn't. A brute. A beast. A typical Orsimer male in all ways that belittle him, and where he's worse, he is more daedric than mortal.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Just as she's picturing his death—by her hands of course—Borkul hauls her to her feet. While the gesture is efficiently harsh, the way he gets down to one knee, brushing her naked, bruised knees off is not. He rubs blood back into her calves with pinching fingers then tugs at the trim of her ratty garments as if trying to arrange her so she looks less disheveled. For a moment, the gestures feel awkward, and then he smooths a few messy strands of hair behind her ear and her heart thuds.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She only jerks away when his thumbs brush the sides of her breasts, but that part of her anatomy seems to be far from his mind. His golden eyes glare at the stain of semen across her chest but doesn't touch her further. Instead, he grumbles and begins stuffing his drained phallus back behind linen and rope ties. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I'll have something else for you to wear when you're done. If Madanach doesn't snap your neck for his trouble, that is."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As unnerving as this show of kindness is, she holds onto her anger, knowing it will help her conversations with the Forsworn leader. Borkul did stain her in his seed for all to see, especially this Madanach, and for that, she should be furious—and she is. Certainly, she isn't thinking about anything but murder and freedom… definitely not what despicable things this Orsimer could and would do to her if she were to count her blessings and remain down here.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Watch yourself, Breton," he says, nodding roughly down the tunnel behind him where a hidden antechamber glows dimly. This warning, she finds, is much more effective than the first...</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Thanks-" she says without thinking, immediately wishing she had remained cold and indifferent.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Two mammoth-sized tusks dimple his lower lip, but he doesn't say anything.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Perhaps, he knows her silver tongue is his best bet in convincing the Forsworn leader to commence with whatever plans he's been making. What little she’s overheard down here already speaks of plans yet to be put in motion and the lingering frustrations because of it, though something tells her she's given the vile Orsimer too much credit. He was, after all, a bandit leader before this… and they are not well known for their foresight.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She nods, grimacing, and straightens her clothes as best she can. First impressions are everything, and she will have more than enough opinions to prove wrong once the man himself sees her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I'll have mercy on you," she mutters to Borkul The Beast as she leaves him with his taste still on her teeth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His only response is a crass, baritone chuckle. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much for reading. If you have time, please let me know what you think. &lt;3</p><p> </p><p>  <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/brimbrimbrimbrim">TUMBLR</a><br/><a href="https://discord.gg/BS4uvMK">DISCORD</a><br/><a href="https://curiouscat.me/brimbrimbrimbrim">CURIOUS CAT</a><br/><a href="https://twitter.com/LydiaBrim">TWITTER</a><br/><a href="https://www.instagram.com/brim_brim_brim_brim/">INSTAGRAM</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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